In a Tight Spot
by Sandrine Shaw
Summary: She'll never mock Barry over his conflicted feelings for Captain Cold ever again. (Or: the one where Iris and Leonard are stuck in a closet together.)


**In a Tight Spot**  
by Sandrine Shaw

"Well, this is awkward," Snart says.

Iris would wholeheartedly agree, but she doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. His drawl conveys a curious mixture of amusement and judgment, like he recognizes the awkwardness but isn't bothered by it. Like it's somehow _her_ fault they're stuck in a tiny dark closet among expensive suits and crisp dress shirts that smell like detergent, Snart and her pressed together so tightly that she feels every breath he takes in the shift against her body.

"It wouldn't be if you hadn't decided to rob the Senator's house on a Friday night," Iris hisses. She has no idea what exactly he came to steal, but Senator Thompson is a well-known art collector, so the possibilities are endless.

Snart clicks his tongue. "So judgmental, Iris. I'm sure you're here for perfectly legal reasons. Hiding in a closet as soon as you realized you had company."

There is that.

Unlike Snart, Iris isn't interested in the countless paintings and artifacts decorating the Senator's house, but rather how exactly he came into the money to acquire them. He's rich, but not that rich, and there have been rumors of bribery and shady connections to the Santinis for a long time.

"I'm investigating an elected official's ties to the mob. You're on a heist. Let's not pretend that this is even remotely the same thing."

"You say potato, I say breaking and entering. What _ever_ would your father say?"

Knowing her dad, he'd be more mad about the fact that she was stuck in here with Snart than about her less-than-legal investigation. Chances are he'd shoot Snart first and lecture her later, and then Barry would get that sad look on his face again, the one he used to have after Snart blew himself up with the Oculus. Iris winces. She'd rather like to avoid a repeat of that. "Yeah, let's maybe not tell him about it. In both our interests."

Snart chuckles. "I won't tell if you won't."

"Deal," she agrees. It's an easy concession to make. It's not like she'd be able to snitch on Snart without mentioning her own presence at the scene of the break-in. Once they'll get out of here, they'll go their separate ways, and it'll be like this whole unfortunate thing never happened.

A soft thumping noise like footsteps on the staircase makes Iris tense. She feels Snart shift, his leg slipping between hers. The edges of the holstered Cold Gun digs uncomfortably into Iris' thigh. She loses balance, grappling for purchase so she won't slip, and the first thing she catches hold of is the collar of his parka, her fists clenching in the padded material. It's cool to the touch and clammy from the rain outside, softer than it looks.

Coat hangers clatter, the sound cutting through the silence like the rumbling of thunder.

Iris jumps a little when hands settle on her hips in an attempt to steady her that backfires, the motion only bringing them closer together. Even through the coarse denim of her jeans, warmth seeps from the touch.

It's funny, she thinks a little hysterically, that _Captain Cold_ should be so warm.

She tries to distract herself by listening for any sign of trouble from the outside, but the house is quiet except for their shallow breathing and the soft rustle of clothes at every tiny micro-movement, despite their best attempts to stay still.

His hands remain where they are, two steady points of pressure against her hips. It might almost be comforting, if it wasn't Snart. If she wasn't hyper-aware of his thigh between her legs and his breath fanning across her face, hot and smelling faintly of mint.

"You're right. This is awkward."

He hums softly in agreement.

"Could be worse, I guess," he says, and a series of vivid images detailing all the ways this could be worse – could still _get_ worse, in fact – flashes through her head, most of them culminating in her and Snart dead in the harbor or handcuffed in the back of a police car. Clearly, that's not what he's worried about, though. "Least you're not wearing a skin-tight leather suit like your fiancé."

"It's not leather," she corrects him absent-mindedly before the meaning of his words sinks in and the dire worst-case-scenarios in her mind are replaced by mental images of Barry pressed up against Snart, crammed together in the dark like this. Snart's hands sliding against the Flash suit, Barry melting against him the way she's trying so hard not to. It's... distracting. "Wait, so are you saying it would be more awkward if you were stuck in here with Barry?"

It's too dark in here to see his expression, but she can feel his glare like a physical weight, and she knows she hit a sore spot.

"Don't ask any questions you're not prepared to hear the answer to, Miss West."

It amuses her that she's _'Miss West'_ now when he usually uses every opportunity to call her by her given name, as if the formality alone is enough to put distance between them. Like every tiny flex of his fingers doesn't set her nerve-ends on fire. Like his thigh isn't pressed snug against her groin. Like she can't feel that he's hard against her hip.

"You're on Barry's Three List," she blurts before she can stop herself. She doesn't usually suffer from foot-in-mouth syndrome, not like Barry tends to, or Cisco even, but _usually_ she's not locked in a tiny dark cubicle with the Flash's favorite nemesis, who may or may not just have admitted to having a not-so-villainous interest in her fiancé.

"Come again?"

He sounds just about as confused by the concept as Barry was when she first brought it up. "The list of people he's allowed to cheat on me with. To be fair, you were dead when he made the list, so it was pretty theoretical at that time."

It wasn't really that theoretical, she thinks, remembering the way Barry wouldn't meet her eyes when he mentioned Snart, like Snart was somehow different from Chris Pine and Iris' Earth 2 alter ego. In hindsight, it's kind of obvious that Snart was the only one Barry was serious about, that his _Three List_ was really a _One List_.

Snart tenses, like he doesn't really know what to do with that information.

When he regains his wits again, he doesn't respond with the sarcastic quip she expects. "I don't suppose I'm on your list?" he asks speculatively, and her mind stutters to a halt.

Unfortunately, he's not – a decision she's rapidly coming to second-guess. What's so great about Oliver Queen anyway? If she was ever locked in a closet with him, he'd probably avoid conversation and uncomfortably stare at the walls while trying his best not to touch her.

She shakes her head, trusting Snart to sense the gesture in the dark.

"Pity." The word is drawn out, a curious lilt in his voice, and a minuscule shift in his position pitches his thigh forward. She'd dismiss it as an accident, except for the precise way the change of angle moves them into a more _intimate_ position.

She sharply pulls in air at the unexpected spike of arousal. "I hate you," she tells him in a tone that's not quite as steady and convincing as she hopes, and she absolutely doesn't, under no circumstances, grind down against his thigh.

His chuckle is so quiet that she barely hears it, but she can feel his body shake softly against hers and the huff of air against her cheek.

Neither of them moves away, frozen in place, the moment held in suspension. Her fingers clench harder in his parka. All she'd have to do is turn her head a few degrees to the left and her lips would brush against his. The idea worms into her mind, sudden and persistent, and she pushes it away with all the force she can muster. She's not going to make out with Leonard Snart while hiding in Senator Thompson's closet. That's just crazy.

She'll never mock Barry over his conflicted feelings for Captain Cold ever again.

A weird sound from outside, muffled through the door but too close for comfort, makes Iris hold her breath. She feels Snart tense against her, his hand gone from her hip, brushing the inside of her leg as he reaches for the Cold Gun where it's strapped to his thigh. Unlike before, there's nothing tantalizing about the touch. Iris doesn't need to see Snart to feel the change in his demeanor, all the playfulness gone at once, an air of danger radiating off him that might scare her under different circumstances. Right now, though, she's grateful for his presence. She can handle herself well enough, but in case they need to fight their way out of here, Snart and his gun will come in handy.

Bright light floods the closet as the door is pulled open.

The Cold Gun powers up with a roar as Iris shields her eyes from the sudden glare of daylight and turns away. But even if she can't see anything, she'd recognize that voice anywhere.

"Snart, what the hell! Cisco traced the Cold Gun to— _Iris_?!"

When she squints at him, the confusion on Barry's face is clearly visible even underneath the Flash mask. He seems too thrown by her presence to pay any attention to the weapon that remains trained on him.

Iris reaches out and tugs at Snart's arm until he finally relents and drops it, a soft whirl indicating that he shut down the gun.

"Look at that, the Scarlet Speedster to the rescue." His sarcasm is back full-force as he's the first to recover from the unexpected turn of events. He reholsters the Cold Gun and pushes aside Thompson's suits, hangers squeaking along the rail and a couple of ties slipping to the floor. "Well, it's been certainly been... fun. Now if you don't mind, I gotta get going."

Snart's lips curl with sardonic amusement, his eyes flickering between them. "Iris. _Flash_. I'll see you around."

He steps out of the closet and pushes past Barry.

The room is large and spaciously furnished, so there is absolutely no need for Snart to brush against Barry's side, knocking into him as he passes. Iris watches, amused, as Barry sways towards him instead of away.

Snart is already at the door, about to slip away, when she makes a choice.

"Leonard," she calls out. He turns back, his expression carefully blank, and for a moment her confidence falters. But he hasn't left yet, and that has to count for something. She swallows and pushes the uncertainty down.

"Friday, 8 pm. Dinner at our place. Don't be late."

There's a certain kind of satisfaction at managing to catch Snart by surprise, stunning him into silence without the usual smart-ass comeback on his lips. He frowns, blue eyes burning into her like he's trying to figure out her game before they dart to Barry, and Iris can see the flash of doubt on his face, like he's expecting Barry to object.

Barry blinks, quickly looking at Iris from the corner of his eyes before offering Snart a shrug. "Sounds good to me. As long as you leave the Cold Gun at home."

When Snart turns to her again, she stares him down, raising an eyebrow in a silent challenge, a dare she knows he'll find hard to resist. Especially because he knows the stakes. The moment stretches for too long, until he finally inclines his head with a wry little smile.

"Fine," he concedes, managing to sound at once hassled and satisfied.

He's slipped out of the door before Iris can respond.

When he's gone and the sound of his footsteps has faded, Barry turns to her. "So... why are we having dinner with Snart?"

Her eyes fall on the empty wall over the bed where she could swear she saw a Kandinsky when she sneaked into the room earlier. When exactly did Snart have time to steal it? And where did he hide it? She's pretty sure she would have noticed if he'd brought a 6-by-4-foot-painting into the closet with them.

She shakes her head, amused despite herself.

"I'll tell you later. We should get out of here before Thompson comes back. Can you quickly help me look through his desk for his bank statements?"

"Come on, for real now?" Barry rubs the back of his neck, a habitual nervous gesture that looks weirdly wrong when he's all dressed up as Central's resident superhero. "You know Joe is going to kill us both, right?"

"We're just not going to tell him that I was snooping around here."

Barry's grin is bright and easy, a little bashful and a little mischievous, and Iris feels her heart swell with love for him. "That's not why he's going to kill us, and you know it."

"I have no idea what you mean," she teases.

"Yeah, sure, of course you don't." He ducks his head and laughs, sounding so utterly unbothered by it that she can't help but feel good about her impromptu decision to issue an invitation to Snart, even if it will likely end up biting them in the ass, one way or another. "Come on, let's find your scoop and get out of here."

End.


End file.
